


Broken Bones (to cut my teeth against)

by coyotecorpse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, It's very vague, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Relationship, Smoking, Suicidal John, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, missing your dead best friend is only gay if you make it that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotecorpse/pseuds/coyotecorpse
Summary: The weight of the world bears down against him as he sits on the floor of the shower, trying to catch his breath under the cold spray. Atlas trembling, shoulder ripped open and knee aching. He feels like if he moves too fast his collarbones will snap under the pressure, the boulder sitting on his back.Sherlock Holmes is dead and John Watson isn't sure he can keep going without him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Broken Bones (to cut my teeth against)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: general warning for suicidal ideation, dissociation, and mental health issues. also mentions of Sherlocks fall.
> 
> this is just my take on how John might have mourned Sherlock if Mary hadn't existed.

The inky blackness of the night sky shines down, planes and stars blurring together to form an oil slick sheen. A wave of cold air drowns John as he steps outside. The frosty air sinks into his bones and forces him to shiver, a subtle shake under his thick coat.

Smoke rolls up into the dark sky as he takes another drag from his cigarette. The nicotine sticks to the back of his throat, a disgusting film that makes him want to gag. He’s always hated smoking even when he was in the army. The smoke stinks and the chemicals that go into a single cigarette aren’t the most appealing ingredients. He hated it even more when Sherlock did it.

The slender man would go through two packs a day if left to his own devices, bored and high strung. He’d let the small cylinder dangle loosely between his delicate pink lips as he paced the flat. The smell permeated the place and stuck to every surface, clinging to the air in a constant reminder of his friend’s addiction. It made his stomach turn and made it impossible to work in the living room. John had hated Sherlock’s habit so much but allowed it to happen because he knew that even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t just quit cold turkey. It wasn’t feasible even for the most genius of addicts.

He let Sherlock smoke because it was better than the alternative. It was so much better than the coke.

The glazed eyes, the blown pupils, the stuttered speech. It had been awful but the withdrawal had been worse. Sherlock had begged and begged for just the tiniest bit of coke, just a taste. John can remember so clearly the way Sherlock had cried not just because he was hurting but because he had known how much it would hurt John. The manipulative bastard had been so desperate, so  _ very _ desperate, that his respect for John had become optional. John had simply become an obstacle in his path to his next fix.

So Sherlock got to smoke cigarettes for a few months and John tried not to let it get to him.

He never actually apologized for what he’d done, but the morning after Sherlock had made him tea. He’d sat the warm cup in front of John and gave him an almost sheepish grin before disappearing back into his bedroom to do whatever it was he did when he was alone.

It had made it all worth it, to see Sherlock smile.

John takes a long drag, relishing in the burn that settles in his lungs. He’d do anything to see that smile again. He’d do anything to see Sherlock again.

It’s such a stupid desire. He knows better than to wish for the comfort of a dead man. He’d seen enough death in Afghanistan to know better, but he wants anyway. He wants so damn much.

There wasn’t any real reason for him to be outside at this time of night. Smoking was a thinly veiled excuse seeing as the flat has windows and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t mind as long she isn’t present for it. He even has an ashtray.

The solid chunk of glass that Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace is sitting by the window in the living room right now, waiting for him to return to his chair, calling his name.

He isn’t sure he can handle going inside right now, preferring the cold of the night air to the frigid temperatures in his empty flat. It hasn’t felt warm in months despite the fireplace, despite the heater, despite John trying so damn hard to forget how warm it used to be with Sherlock by his side.

A plane flies over and John watches the flashing light cross the sky, staring up in a failing attempt to stop thinking about how things used to be. It will never be the same. It can’t be. Not with Sherlock’s ghost haunting the rooms, slender hands freezing everything insight with his invisible touch. His fingerprints are etched into the very foundation of the flat, carved into the space with a flare that can only be described as Sherlock’s.

The sound of a car backfiring shakes him from his thoughts, echoing through the near silent night with a loud bang. John suppresses a full body flinch, clenching his fist tightly by his side and screwing up his face.

He hasn’t been shot at since Sherlock fell. There’s no reason for him to be so afraid, so on edge.

It should be a good thing, being safe. It should make him feel better, make him feel  _ good _ , but it causes an ache to form behind his ribs that gnaws at the emptiness there. He misses the danger more than he fears it, he knows, oh God he knows, that fact says something about him. 

He crushes the cigarette under his foot and heads back inside. He needs to get some sleep. He has work in the morning.

The flat feels almost forgein when he walks in. It’s so empty without Sherlock in it; it lacks everything that made it home, that made it 221b. His clothes reek of smoke and he feels dirty. Calloused hands tug off clothes as he walks through the flat, unsteady on his bad knee.

Water pours from the showerhead, bouncing off his hand as he waits for it to warm. It’s a futile task. He knows it will feel cold no matter how long he waits, no matter how high he turns up the heat.

His skin turns red soon after he steps in, the only proof that the water isn’t as freezing as it feels. The loofah scrubs roughly at his already damaged skin as he attempts to remove any traces of smoke from his body. It still lingers no matter how hard he scrubs, hands shaking as the realization sets in.

He can’t get rid of the smell.

Tears mix with the scalding water as he slides down the tile wall, knees giving out. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, not really. All he knows is that he can’t quite get a good breath in, that he can still taste the nicotine in the back of his throat.

Why can’t he get rid of _the_ _smell_?

John starts shivering long before the hot water runs out, body wracked with near violent shakes as he crouches down against the shower floor. His legs are pulled up to his chest, head laying on his knees like a frightened child.

The sound of his heartbeat echoes so loudly in his ears that he can hardly hear the water. He can taste copper in the back of his throat and realizes belatedly that he’s biting his cheek.

He untenses, forcing his muscles to relax. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

The weight of the world bears down against him as he sits on the floor of the shower, trying to catch his breath under the cold spray. Atlas trembling, shoulder ripped open and knee aching. He feels like if he moves too fast his collarbones will snap under the pressure, the boulder sitting on his back.

He can almost hear Sherlock laughing, a deep giggle from within his birdcage chest. It is funny in a sad sort of way. A grown man on the brink of panic, sitting in the shower unable to tell if the dampness on his face is tears or shower water. It’s a childishly poor way of coping, more specifically, a childish reaction to not coping.

John has never been that great with emotions. He grew up in a household where loud expressions of feeling simply weren't allowed. He was a military kid turned army man and it shows in the way he clenches his jaw to fight back whines.

He thought he’d be used to losing people by now, watching them die while he desperately tried to help.

A failure of an army doctor who couldn’t quite feel things openily, afraid to feel incase something went wrong, in case someone really saw.

His fingers slip awkwardly against the shower knob, a blind grasp to finally end the freezing spray. His knees wobble as he tries to stand. It’s been harder and harder to get around since Sherlock died. His psychosomatic limp plagues him without any care for his already fragile mental state, eating at the back of his brain and making the easiest tasks a chore.

Sherlock’s ghost brushes by him as he limps towards his bedroom, a slight press of cold air against his back. Slender fingers drag over the nape of his neck and raise goosebumps across his arms. 

It isn’t real. He knows it isn’t real, but he still yearns to lean into the intangible touch.

Sherlock’s hands used to feel so warm, so alive in everything they did. They twitched with energy. Plucking violin strings. Wrapping around beakers. Delicately pinching a cigarette. Dragging over John’s arm in an attempt to lead into the jaws of London’s underworld.

John wishes distantly that he had been born an artist instead of a doctor. Wishes that he could sketch those hands, that he could see them in detail again. Water color, gouache, oil pastel. It’d all be secondary to the look, the very aesthetic of Sherlock’s hands.

Holding a gun. Pressed against his temples. Wrapped around John’s wrist. 

Sherlock had artistic hands that even years of rough legwork couldn’t make look hard. He had piano hands that could span an octave. He had painter's hands that could grip brushes just right. He had violinist hands that softly held a bow and made the most beautiful sounds.

It’s an odd thing to miss so much, a dead best friend’s hands, but John knows that it is easier to miss a little detail than it is to remember the big picture.

Almost two years have passed and he’s starting to forget. He can’t hear Sherlock as clearly anymore, his voice becoming distant and soft like his brain can’t quite replicate it anymore. It’s terrifying to think about.

He’s forgetting Sherlock and it hurts more than his knee ever could.

Pictures don’t do the detective justice. They don’t capture his motion, the constant sway of his hips. The way his hands twitched, the twinkling of his eyes, the soft rise of his chest.

Sherlock was always so visibly alive, moving like running water. 

A photo has nothing on watching his lip curl or seeing realization cloud his face. But John wishes a photo could hold those things, wishes videos didn’t feel like a hollow shell of what it really was. His memory is failing him and he has nothing to fall back on.

The cold fingers trail away and John feels a chill run up his spine. He can’t remember the last time he felt warm.

He can’t remember much anymore.

The light of the street leaks into the room from the window and John can almost imagine the cigarette smoke wafting past. Silver illuminates the dark duvet and speckles across the hardwood flooring like fallen snow.

He lets his towel drop to the floor, puddling by the doorway. His still damp skin chills as he moves towards his dresser. He thumbs through soft jumpers after sliding on some boxers, letting himself find comfort in the knit fabric. They don’t keep out the chill  — he’s sure that it’s only in his head — but they do provide a similar comfort that he assumes children might find in a special blanket or a stuffed toy. Things he never really got as a kid and now seek out as an adult.

Sherlock had always ran warm despite what his massive coat might have shown. John remembers nights of pressing his cold toes against Sherlock’s thigh as they sat on the couch watching tellie. 

It feels like looking through a window, seeing something he wasn’t actually a part of. 

He tugs a grey jumper over his head and falls into bed gracelessly. The sheets are wrinkled and the duvet is half-off; it’s messy and has been for a while. It’d only take a few moments to change the sheet but the very thought leaves him exhausted, so he sleeps on crumpled sheets and pretends he doesn’t miss the warmth that Sherlock only ever provided in minute moments and buried dreams.

Dreams don’t come to him like they used to. Even his nightmares have changed in the wake of Sherlock’s crash with the ground.

Vivid and sweltering visions of sand and bullets flying morph into vague newspaper clippings of lies. Misguided voices murmur falsehoods that he can never quite remember when he wakes up drenched in a cold sweat. Red and grey and black blur into a mix drink of complete and utter fear that leaves him breathless. Sometimes he just feels like he’s falling, stepping over a non-existent ledge into a grey abyss.

Those are the worst; he can never fall back asleep after them. They activate a dark part in his mind that can’t let go of how Sherlock must have felt as he dived over the edge of Bart’s roof, how the wind must have felt in his face before he hit the concrete.

Was he afraid?

John knows he is when he jumps awake so violently that he almost falls out of bed.

His eyelids feel heavy but they won’t close for long, flashes of vibrant red and glazed over blue won’t let him rest. His eyelashes flutter against his cheek bones as he opens and shuts his eyes repeatedly in a futile attempt to sleep. He wishes he had a mind palace to escape to, to pass the time in.

It’d be the living room. That’s where he’d keep all his important memories. The pictures, framed on the wall, would move with memories of life and nature. The fireplace would roar and it would be perfectly warm. His chair would be there, off the side and just as worn in. His laptop would be on the table and he would type out the most important case details as they came. Sherlock would be there too, long legs extended as he sits on the couch smiling. His real smile, the one that’s a little lopsided and shows too much teeth.

He would smile at John —  _ because of John _ — and everything would be okay.

Sherlock’s ghost slides into bed next to him, lifeless touch almost suffocating. He wraps his hand around John’s wrist and pulls him close, whispers in his ear but John can only hear ringing.

He can only hear the sound of a car honking outside, but he can almost feel the breath on the shell of his ear, phantom lips grazing the cartilage. An arm falls over his waist and dark curls form a halo on his pillow case. He’s stopped trying to push the feeling away, knows now that it will do him no good to pretend he isn’t being haunted by his own mind.

If he turns his head towards the feeling, nothing will be there. He knows that to be true so he stares at the ceiling and waits for it to dissipate. 

Freezing finger prints burn into his hip, carving a marker into his skin like a sick brand. He digs his own nails into his thigh, trying to distract himself from his mind’s projection of his own guilt. His dead and festering guilt.

The hands slip away and John finds himself unable to keep his eyes open any longer. He stumbles into sleep, restless and shallow. It’s better than nothing, better than being awake, but it isn’t good.

Cold lips press a frostbite kiss onto his forehead.

It’s never good.

The sun wakes him, too bright rays shining through his window. He forgot to pull the curtains closed last night. His mind had been somewhere else, foggy with exhaustion and pain.

Things have gotten more and more muddled recently, actions and thoughts blending together behind his eyelids. He isn’t sure what he had for breakfast yesterday, can’t remember if he even ate. He thinks he might have, but the way his stomach is growling points to him having missed dinner.

He walks to the kitchen, albeit rather aimlessly. He isn’t sure what he’s going to eat. He’s been neglecting the shopping recently, not having the energy to run to Tesco after work. He could have toast. The fridge is devoid of any jam or jelly but plain toast isn’t the worst thing to eat. He pulls out the toaster and grabs some bread.

Toast it is.

He barely tastes the food as it goes down, eating almost subconsciously. He used to not understand how someone could just eat to eat, to simply fuel themself. Food wasn’t exactly hard to come by when he was a child but sometimes when money was tight, he learned to savor what he got. Snacks weren’t a thing for him and when he finally got away from home, the army wasn’t any better. He spent so long eating just enough to stay alive. He couldn’t imagine having great food within arms reach and not finding the time to enjoy it, to really taste it.

The toast goes down like sandpaper and he can’t find it in him to take his time while eating. He just wants to quiet his stomach’s growling and keep himself alive long enough to go to work.

Things have changed so much since that January almost two years ago. Some things feel tediously the same.

Work at Bart’s is definitely the latter.

Patients keep complaining, he keeps doctoring, and the nurses shoot him sad looks when they see him in the halls. Day in day out. It’s always the same. He does his best to keep his patients happy and healthy and tries not to blame them for how boring his life has become.

He can’t resent them for Sherlock’s choice.

An older man says something about how his toe has been bothering him. His file notes a history of lying for pain medications.

Wide blown, blue eyes. Shaking hands that are filled with life. Deep voice breaking as it begs for  _ just a taste, John. _

He tries and fails not to resent them for Sherlock’s choice.

A quick and professional assessment, some harsh words, and a very rude goodbye later and his shift is over. Time for him to return to his flat, to fall back into his fugued routine. The chill hits him as soon as he walks through the door.

Sherlock’s ghost trails a hand around his waist, pulls him into the living room with a silent croon. It feels like a blade piercing his side, the spear of destiny punishing him for sins he can’t even remember clearly. Time flashes by in quick bursts with intermittent bouts of molasses slow ticks. He falls asleep on the couch for a few hours; the sun has set. It feels like he’s only shut his eyes for a moment, a split second.

He moves to his bed, still exhausted beyond belief. Sherlock’s ghost follows him like a loyal hound, digging it’s fangs into his shoulder, piercing his skin with it’s untrimmed claws.

It’ll be January tomorrow. Almost exactly two years since Sherlock died.

Lips ghosts over his shattered collarbones, sharp teeth nibbling at the raw skin.

Two years and it’s still so cold and lifeless without him. John sighs as the moon shines in. He isn’t sure how long he can live like this, half-awake and freezing. He isn’t sure he can make it to another January.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
